


Heartache

by iriswests



Series: Bane & Santiago International [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: And also his short self, Disgusting rotten fluff, M/M, Raphael Santiago's repressed and short brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6899803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswests/pseuds/iriswests
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raphael's heart aches, and he wants to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't the next part i had planned for y'all that part is kind of sitting one-third of the way finished in my drafts, but in honor of [this](https://twitter.com/McGsWonderland/status/732871849181360128) wonderful twitter status, i decided to write something up real quick to hold y'all over while that's done
> 
> this is raphael's little internal "wha??" of the month leading up to the 'i love you'
> 
> it's nothing, seriously, not compared to the other two parts and i'm sorry for it
> 
> but have it
> 
> also full disclosure i am not a songwriter so whatever the heck that is is not. just don't scrutinize it too much bc what the fu
> 
> anyway ENJOY THIS i love you all and your comments and your wonderful support and i cry every time one of you messages me on tumblr and tells me what this story meant to you because honestly just
> 
> you are all SO IMPORTANT you all DESERVE TO BE LOVED and there is a simon lewis out there for ALL OF YOU and if you don't want one then that's FINE there is a platonic simon lewis out there for you too you are NOT UNLOVABLE and you are PERFECT and it's okay to be sad i love you i love you i love you
> 
> i love you
> 
> ok now bye

Raphael likes to count to ten in the mornings.

It gives him some sort of order before the day begins. He couldn’t explain it to you if he tried – it’s something he’s been doing since he was young, a ritual he’s never told anyone about.

But it’s been the only constant in his life, and perhaps that is why it’s so important to him.

 _One, two, three, four_ —

“Uhumahum,” Simon grumbles, turning over on his side and wrapping an arm around Raphael’s chest. Raphael attempts to ignore him.

— _five, six_ —

“Raphael,” Simon moans, and Raphael has to stop himself from snapping at the only person who’s ever managed to spend an entire night with him. “Wake up.”

“I am awake,” Raphael tells Simon, though his eyes remained closed.

“We’re gonna be late for work,” Simon mutters. Raphael’s brows furrow through shut eyes before they open and clear, his gaze then shifting to the alarm clock resting at his bedside. It reads six-thirty in the morning.

“We don’t go in until nine,” Raphael says, struggling to remember what number he’s left off on on his count-up. Perhaps if he can at least _finish_ it, despite it being a little broken off, he can feel the same or comparable level of order.

Simon huffs. “I’m always there before you,” he mutters. Raphael pauses. Hm. This is true. For as long as he’s known and hired Simon, he’s always been at the office before Raphael’s arrival.

“How long before?”

“’Bout an hour and a half,” Simon pushes his face into the crook of Raphael’s neck, tightens his arm around Raphael’s chest. Raphael settles back into the warmth. “Always had to get there before Martha. The witch loves stealing your coffee.”

Raphael blinks steadily. “I always assumed you were only there a half hour before me.”

Simon laughs breathlessly. “I’m nothing if not punctual, boss,” he jokes, and Raphael feels his expression shift into one of distaste.

“Don’t call me that in bed,” he tells Simon, for about the hundredth time.

And Simon, as per usual, simply hums noncommittally.

 _Five, six_ —

“You want me to make you some breakfast?” Simon interrupts his thoughts once again, this time not only with his words but with a soft kiss to the back of his neck. Raphael begrudgingly accepts this, as Simon’s lips against his skin always feel like ratification, atonement for all of his sins, and when they are attached to his skin he cannot think straight.

“Hmm,” Raphael hums, though it’s not exactly permission to get out of bed just yet. Simon understands, and turns Raphael over on his back. With a small smirk, Simon straddles his lap and leans downward to press his forehead to Raphael’s.

“Guess I can be a little late today,” he mutters quietly, breath ghosting over Raphael’s lips. It feels like thirst finding a river. “I’m a friend of the boss’s, after all.”

Raphael’s heart aches when Simon kisses him, and he forget to finish counting to ten.

**

It’s been two weeks and—

“What are you doing with that guitar?” Raphael asks as he enters his house. It’s been two weeks and his place already smells of Simon Lewis, which is to say of things Raphael doesn’t know, doesn’t touch, doesn’t recognize.

Simon raises an eyebrow. “Eating it,” he deadpans.

Raphael does not appreciate Simon’s sarcasm, and he tells him as much. Not in so many words, but he breezes past Simon coolly and into the kitchen, where he promptly pours himself a drink.

There is a silence, and then: “ _Raphael_.”

The voice is Simon’s, of course, and it’s whining and pleading at once and Raphael sighs, taking this for the apology that it surely is in Simon-speak.

“Simon.” Raphael replies steadily.

“I wasn’t really eating the guitar,” he says, and his voice is closer now. Raphael looks up from his drink just in time to see a sheepish Simon enter the kitchen. “I was playing it.”

“You don’t say.”

Simon huffs. “Don’t ask me to play anything for you,” he warns, and Raphael is a little hurt. He wasn’t going to ask him, of course, but that is only because he thought Simon would offer. But then again, it’s only been two weeks and Simon isn’t obligated to share a part of him he’s not comfortable sharing.

On the other hand, it’s been over four years and Simon should play his guitar for Raphael because he is his boss.

But he won’t show his curiosity, because it is unbecoming.

“I can hear you pouting,” Simon says, because of course he does.

“I am doing no such thing,” Raphael lies, nursing his drink. “I am thinking about all the other people I know who play guitar.”

“It’s nothing against you,” Simon ignores him altogether. “It’s just—”

Raphael holds up a silencing hand. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Simon.”

Simon eyes him warily. “Don’t I, though?”

Raphael raises an eyebrow.

Simon stares at him.

Raphael stares back.

Simon sighs. “Fine,” he throws up his hands in defeat. “I’ll play for you.”

Raphael’s insides burst with excitement, and he’s almost definitely sure he’s preening outwardly.

Simon scoffs. “You look insane!” he calls out to Raphael as he walks out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. “Don’t smile like that, you maniac.”

Raphael’s smile only widens.

“I hear it!” Simon calls out again, and Raphael huffs a laugh. “I _hear_ you smiling!”

Raphael stares at his drink for a moment before he decides to leave it where it is and follow Simon into the sitting room, where he is once again lounging on the couch, guitar settled on his lap. Raphael, by now, has his smile under control, and walks swiftly but purposefully towards the loveseat that is forwardly facing the couch.

“It’s one of my songs,” Simon explains, tuning the guitar. Raphael nods, understanding.

“Good,” he replies, because it is, because if it’s Simon’s song then it’s personal and it’s more of Simon to explore and Raphael will never admit it, but he’ll never become tired of exploring Simon Lewis, in every way.

The other finishes tuning the guitar and looks up at Raphael.

Simon looks nervous, which is absolutely ridiculous. “Why are you nervous?” Raphael asks.

Simon gives him a look. “Because you are the snobbiest music snob on the planet,” Simon points out, and Raphael can see how this statement holds some truth to it.

Still, he denies it. “I am not,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “I will enjoy your song.”

“Don’t make it sound like a business deal,” Simon frowns, but his expression holds a tinge of amusement and makes Raphael’s heart squeeze. “Promise you’ll only enjoy it if you’re actually enjoying it.”

Raphael shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“Raphael.”

Damn him. “Alright,” Raphael relents. “I’ll only like it if I like it.”

“That’s all a musician can ask for,” Simon teases, adjusting the guitar on his lap. He clears his throat, and gives a false start. “Gah,” Simon frowns. “Okay, hang on.” He tries again, and nothing happens. “Just—” he breathes in deeply, glances nervously up at Raphael before looking back at the strings between his fingers. “You just—”

Raphael feels for him. Raphael will always feel for him. He stands from the loveseat and walks across the room to the couch, sits on it beside Simon and his guitar. Simon looks at him, and he’s biting his lower lip. Chewing on it, perhaps is more accurate. “Do you want me to sing with you.” It’s not a question – mostly because it comes out a little constipated. Raphael loathes singing in public, will loathe singing in front of Simon – because he doesn’t deserve that – but he’ll do it if it makes Simon more comfortable with the present situation.

Simon smiles at him. “You don’t know the lyrics,” he reminds Raphael, which is true. “But you’d really do it, wouldn’t you?”

Raphael grimaces.

Simon laughs, strums the guitar. “Okay,” he nods. “I’ve got this.”

And he does.

At first, the strum of the guitar is nothing but that – a strum – but then it turns into a melody, Simon’s fingers artistically and captivatingly dancing to the song. At second, it is nothing but a melody, beautifully played and well-endowed, and then Simon begins to sing, and it is—

Quiet. It’s nervous. But then it’s louder, and his voice begins to leak courage and wisdom, and Raphael is so busy listening to the emotion in Simon’s voice that the lyrics don’t begin to sink in until they do, and they say to him:

> _If you should fall in love_  
>  _with rose-red lips and shaking hands,_  
>  _with oceans for eyes and gaze filled with lands_
> 
> _With open wounds and salted tears  
>  with constant battles and constant fears_
> 
> _Be sure to kiss him with your teeth_  
>  _as teeth are the strongest and last you the longest_  
>  _and be sure to hold his hand through the hurt_  
>  _and dust his wounds and dust the dirt_  
>  _and his demons_  
>  _fight his demons_
> 
> _And keep in mind his mother, and love him in winter_  
>  _and save him from thunder, and all of the splinters_  
>  _on all of the roses he holds in his heart_  
>  _the same ones that threaten to tear him apart_
> 
> _Hold his hand through the summer and burn through the fire_  
>  _and watch as the further you fall you fly higher_  
>  _and if you should fall in love with constellations_  
>  _then settle down and hone in expectations_
> 
> _You’re in for a ride_  
>  _But I guess it’s alright_  
>  _In the face of a person whose smile’s so bright_
> 
> _And start wars for him if you have to,_  
>  _Burn the ocean and settle the sun,_  
>  _Find the secrets of every universe,_  
>  _Kiss all of him and watch him come undone_
> 
> _If you should fall in love_  
>  _With a forest for a man,_  
>  _Hold his hand_  
>  _Hold his hand_

It’s uncommon, Raphael thinks, because there is no structure. It’s not a song, but it’s poetry in melody, it’s Simon’s heart poured into rhythm and it’s Raphael’s heart sinking into storms. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous and assume the song is about him, but if it is, it hurts – not badly, not embarrassingly, but it simply _hurts_ , it simply _does_. It exists, and it’s in Raphael’s head now after finding entrance through his ears and when Simon’s finished, Raphael feels nothing but peaceful silence and settled lungs and knotted throat.

Simon purses his lips. “Don’t just stare at me,” he laughs shakily. “It was – I mean, it could have been _better_ , I know, and it’s not really – it was experimental, so you don’t have to – pretend you—”

“Simon, for the love of God,” he breathed, rolling his eyes for good measure. His hands are shaking but he hides them, as he hides everything. “I am processing.”

“Are you finished?”

“I am finished.”

“And the verdict?”

Raphael stares into Simon’s eyes. So dark, so genuine, so full. Raphael wants to drown in them. Raphael would never ask to come up for air again if Simon would let him. Raphael would feel content in the depths of Simon’s eyes, so full of concern and wonder and _life_ , so much life in them and Raphael envies them, admires them.

“I liked it.” He proclaims, and he makes sure it sounds genuine and the tone indicates it is not open for discussion.

Simon beams, and Raphael’s heart falters. “I like _you_.”

Raphael’s heart aches when he leans forward to kiss the words from Simon’s mouth, and he tastes life and death and stars and songs.

**

It’s been three weeks and—

“Is this the longest relationship you’ve ever been in?” Magnus Bane asks, and Raphael flips him off casually without looking up. He hears his friend chuckle.

“It’s not,” Raphael says, but it certainly feels that way. Perhaps because no other relationship has been as important. “It will be.”

“Ah,” Magnus hums. Raphael dares to glance up, and sees what he expects – Magnus’s feet on the conference table, hands settled behind his head, not a care in the world. Magnus Bane is a hard-working man, but nowhere Raphael has ever seen. “It’s _that_ kind of relationship.”

Raphael rolls his eyes. “There is only one kind.”

“Friend,” Magnus blinks at him slowly. “That is a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

Not untrue. “Still,” Raphael yawns, because it is late – past midnight, now, and Simon is probably asleep in Raphael’s bed, hair tousled and mouth open and snoring like a boar. “He’s not—” Raphael struggles with the words. “I don’t want to box him in.”

“I thought you said there was only one kind of relationship,” Magnus raised a curious eyebrow.

“Yes,” Raphael agrees. “And there is only one of him.”

Magnus smiles kindly. “I see.”

His phone vibrates. Raphael, glad for the distraction, reaches for it over a pile of paperwork and unlocks a text message from not-asleep Simon.

> **Simon:** miss you :(

Raphael’s heart aches. What _is_ it, what is _this_ —

“Unbelievably disgusting,” Magnus exclaims, and Raphael looks up. Magnus is watching him, expression torn between amusement and envy.

Raphael rolls his eyes. “You don’t know who it is.”

“Ah!” Magnus clasps his hands together in glee. “Does your face look like it’s seen a miracle every time your _mother_ texts you?”

Raphael frowns. “It does not—”

“Or like you have found the cure for cancer,” Magnus holds up a finger. “Or perhaps like you’ve met your long-deceased idol,” Another finger. “Or you’ve just read an article about the Pope,” Another. “Or you’ve finally taken a piss after—”

“I get it,” Raphael snaps, but it holds no menace. “My face is excitable.”

“No,” Magnus hums. “I wouldn’t use that word.”

“Then?” Raphael presses. He wants to know. He needs to know. Maybe Magnus can tell him.

But Magnus Bane is Magnus Bane, and he can tell that Raphael is asking, _truly_ asking, and so of course he does not give him a straight answer.

He says, “Infatuated,” and waves a hand at him. “We should head home, anyway. We’re getting nothing done.”

Raphael frowns. “I’m—”

“Go home, Raphael,” Magnus stands. “I’ve someone waiting for me, too.”

What a strange concept. To have someone waiting for you.

His voice vibrates with another text that Raphael thoughtlessly unlocks.

> **Simon:** I SAID I MISS YOU

Raphael smiles.

> **Raphael:** I’m on my way home.

And what a strange concept.

Home.

Raphael’s heart aches when Simon replies with a simple heart emoji.

**

It’s one in the morning when Raphael gets home, and his heart aches even more at the sight of Simon, restless on the bed.

There is a sigh of relief, and Raphael does not know who it comes from.

Simon sits up on the bed, back on the headboard, and spreads his arm. “C’mere,” he says, slightly bleary.

Raphael is still in a suit, Raphael is still with shoes on and his hair is still pristine and his contacts are still in but when faced with Simon Lewis’s arms, spread wide and expecting, Raphael doesn’t care and slides into them without question.

Simon holds him. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, and Raphael can’t see his face, but he imagines his eyes are closed. He doesn’t tell him Raphael doesn’t sleep much at all, any night, but that it’s easier to breathe when Simon’s here. Maybe Simon doesn’t fix his sleeping problem, but he certainly makes the night far more comfortable, far less frightening.

“And now?” Raphael asks quietly.

Simon hums. “Your outfit’s killing me, a little,” he teases. Raphael can’t help the small smile that takes over his lips.

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” he points out. “Your arms demanded my attention.”

Simon sighs heavily. “I guess I’m just gonna have to get you out of it myself,” his tone is long-suffering, but Raphael knows better.

“What a gentleman,” Raphael turns in Simon’s arms. He is grinning, and so Raphael grins back.

“What would you do without me?” Simon teases.

“A lot.”

“Liar.”

Yes. “ _[Me moriría en vida](/)_ ,” Raphael mutters quietly in his native tongue, bringing his hand up to stroke Simon’s face. “ _[Me secaría por dentro](/)_.” His lips find Simon’s neck.

“What did you just say to me.” Simon appears to want to sound offended, and, what’s more, phrase this as a question, but is currently breathless and his head is leaning back and he’s letting Raphael press his lips softly against the skin of his collar bone.

“Just listing off all of the things I would do without you,” Raphael teases against Simon’s skin. “Would you like to hear some more?”

“In English, maybe,” Simon breathes in reply, and groans when Raphael bites down softly on the curve of his shoulder. “Never mind. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Raphael does.

**

His heart aches particularly harshly one morning, when Simon is wearing Raphael’s pajama bottoms – which are far too short on him – and he is setting a plate of breakfast down in front of Raphael.

“Eggs!” Simons exclaims proudly. “You’re lookin’ at the next five-star chef here, baby.”

Raphael can’t stand it.

He can’t explain it, either.

His face must betray his frustration, because Simon is suddenly looking at him with worry. “Raph?” he leans down to look at him. “You okay?”

Raphael grunts. Simon blinks at him.

“Words?” he asks politely.

“I don’t know,” Raphael’s voice sounds tight, even to his own ears. “It just—” he holds his chest. “It feels like—”

Simon looks alarmed. “Oh my God, are you having a stroke?”

Raphael looks at him.

Simon steps closer. “Oh my god, okay, can you feel both of your arms? Raphael, can you say something?”

Raphael can’t believe this is the man his heart aches for. “Simon,” he starts.

“I’ll call an ambulance!” Simon exclaims, turning to presumably scurry towards Raphael’s landline, despite his cell phone sitting on the kitchen table.

Raphael grabs at his pajama bottoms before he has a chance to do so. “I am not having a stroke.”

Simon turns to look at him, bemused. “Then why did you tell me you were?”

Raphael drops his head into Simon’s arm and groans.

Simon pats his head. “There, there,” he coos. “My eggs’ll make it all better.”

Raphael turns to look at Simon’s eggs. They are burnt.

But he eats them anyway, and they taste of heaven, they taste of Simon’s hands, and they taste of—

Ah.

**

On a bad day, Simon talks.

On a bad day, Simon lays beside him and stays silent.

On a bad day, Simon holds him through his tears.

On a bad day, Simon understand his cutting words.

On a bad day, Simon will pet his hair and kiss his forehead.

On a bad day, Simon is there.

Simon is always there.

Simon is always here.

**

In the end, it’s uneventful, and Simon believes he says it first.

He’ll say, _I love you_ , and Raphael will say, _And I love you_ , and that’ll be that.

But before—

Just days before, Simon will be asleep with his arms around Raphael and Raphael, unsurprisingly, will be awake.

And he will whisper the words, quietly, into the night.

And he will say them again, to Simon.

Simon is asleep and he doesn’t hear, but Raphael will say them one last time, for practice.

He means them. And he hopes the words find Simon in his dreams, and bring him peace, and bring him happiness, and bring him constellations.

Raphael hopes Simon is flying in his dreams.

“I love you, Simon Lewis,” Raphael says them one last time, and he closes his eyes.

Sleep comes, begrudgingly, and his dreams are filled with wars and burning oceans and forests.

And in the midst of them—

The world, holding his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my [tumblr](http://westiris.tumblr.com/) if you wanna hang
> 
> kudos and comments always make my day
> 
> also if you're wondering about the translation for the spanish, just hover over the sentences
> 
> as a native spanish speaker i can assure you it sounds a lot more poetic in spanish


End file.
